


stubbornly by your side

by dames_for_jamesbarnes



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, F/M, Other: See Story Notes, mentions of the squad - Freeform, stubborn idiots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28763676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dames_for_jamesbarnes/pseuds/dames_for_jamesbarnes
Summary: “It’s him,” you declare, lifting your chin.Amanda snorts like it’s a joke. Liv just looks at you with raised brows. And Cragen’s deadpan makes Nick scoff to himself and lean against his desk.“Didn’t realize it was that easy, Detective. Guess we have it all finished up.”Maybe it was a joke, at first. But the dismissal, the collective laughter, shuts you down, and you simply shrug.“Just a feeling, Captain. Sorry,” you say. But Nick recognizes that fire, the way your gaze doesn’t leave the whiteboard, the clench of your jaw, the way that Liv and Rollins and Fin all drift off but you linger behind, eyes not leaving the perp. He knows the feeling of something like that, the certainty that settles in your spine.
Relationships: Nick Amaro/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	stubbornly by your side

**Author's Note:**

> tw: canon-typical mentions of rape, injury, and hospital settings; mentions of parental physical abuse in **section v** , starting with _“Nick watches his father leave...”_ and ending with _“Nick, I’m here.”_

**i.** _**obdurate** _ **(adj.)**

> **refusing to change one's opinion or chosen course of action.**

You walked into the one-six with transfer papers in hand, a box with some meager belongings in the other. Nick hears the whispers of Major Case dropout, hears your laugh in Cragen’s office as he sees you shake his hand. But when you leave, and he meets his captain’s eyes, he sees the brow raise of someone who knows what kind of trouble is coming.

Your desk is on the other side of the bullpen, so Nick doesn’t get to talk to you a lot, and frankly, he doesn’t mind it. You don’t seem the type for talking, but you still fill the room with yourself, with pulled back shoulders and sharp eyes. The trouble doesn’t come until you start talking, sure of yourself.

It’s the second case at SVU you’ve ever seen, and your eyes alight on one of the suspects. The brother, his mugshot showcasing a sleazy grin. There’s something about him that catches your attention, past the rap sheet, and after a couple of interviews with Liv and Nick respectively, you nod your head.

“It’s him,” you declare, lifting your chin.

Amanda snorts like it’s a joke. Liv just looks at you with raised brows. And Cragen’s deadpan makes Nick scoff to himself and lean against his desk.

“Didn’t realize it was that easy, Detective. Guess we have it all finished up.”

Maybe it was a joke, at first. But the dismissal, the collective laughter, shuts you down, and you simply shrug.

“Just a feeling, Captain. Sorry,” you say. But Nick recognizes that fire, the way your gaze doesn’t leave the whiteboard, the clench of your jaw, the way that Liv and Rollins and Fin all drift off but you linger behind, eyes not leaving the perp. He knows the feeling of something like that, the certainty that settles in your spine.

The whole case, you insist on it. You keep bringing him up. Gentle nods in his direction with the whole squad, which apparently turn into full on shoves when you get sent out with Amanda to do some reconnaissance. Rollins comes back with a look on her face, and when she and Nick are alone the gossip is spilled easily.

“God, she’s stubborn as a mule.” Rollins says under her breath, and Nick just scoffs before tossing down the file in his hand. “Always found a way to bring it back to the brother.”

“I’ll take her next time,” Nick offers, because he’s nice like that. Amanda just pats him on his arm, and then immediately wrinkles her nose at the niceties.

“Awfully kind offer. What’re you hoping for in return?”

His eyes roll before they narrow at her. “What? I said I’d do it. Don’t make me change my mind.”

So he does. He takes you. And when the two of you end up in a car, he can see your foot tapping as you wait, your eyes scanning anywhere but where you’re supposed to be watching.

“You gonna do that the whole time?” he finally blurts out, when your fingers have started tapping, too, and that makes your eyes meet his.

“What?”

“Tap like that.” He gestures to your hands, and you curl them into fists on top of your knees, frowning as you look at him. “You’re shaking the whole car with it.”

“Right,” you say, and Nick notices there’s no apology. You just keep your eyes on his, glance back out towards the outside. “Didn’t notice.”

And then you start again. About ten minutes later, and Nick lets out a sharp breath through his nose. You don’t hesitate to stop the tapping, but then your head is bobbing, your eyes are scanning the street from side to side in slow, steady movements and Nick lifts his hand to pinch his nose.

“Look –”

“We’re wasting our time.” You say it with such certainty that the annoyance comes a little delayed.

“Is this what you were doing with Rollins?” he asks, voice sharp. “This whole thing?”

“Probably worse,” you say, peering over his shoulder at the doorman who hasn’t moved an inch. “She had the music turned up.”

His eyes narrow at you. You’re still not looking at him, just scanning back and forth, and he leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest.

Eventually Nick just takes you in. You still have your seatbelt on, even though the car is in park on the sidewalk. He realizes you’re humming, then. A song you have stuck in your head, and that’s the rhythm that you’re moving to.

When he speaks again, it’s curious. “So you really think this,” he says, gesturing to the apartment they’re sitting on, “is all for nothing? You’re _that_ sure?”

And when you look at him, there’s that fire in your eyes again, your teeth showing in your smile.

“Don’t ask if you’re not going to listen,” you say.

Nick shrugs, reaching a hand up to push through his hair. “I’ll listen as long as you’ve got something of value to say. Nothing else to kill time.”

To your credit, you don’t hesitate. And Nick, to his own, pays attention.

Much to his own surprise he’s nodding. Sighs a little every so often, rubs his hand along his neck as you outline the facts of the case to him, put together the pieces. He listens to your voice as you slowly get more excited, as your hands and feet stop fidgeting and your focus is on telling him what you can. When it’s all before the both of you, your hands open to him with a little playful flourish on the end, Nick can’t help the way that his brow has climbed up his forehead.

He’s… impressed. A little frustrated. A _lot_ frustrated, considering he’s been sitting on a stakeout for what feels like too long, now.

“You’ve been sitting on that the whole time?”

That makes you shrug. “I brought it up the sarge. She didn’t seem like she wanted to hear it before we… thoroughly fleshed out other options.”

And that’s fair. There’s always different routes, different options. Nick remembers the way that Liv first took to him – or, how she didn’t. He sighs a little bit, turns to look at you in his seat, and rolls his shoulders as he considers what he wants to do.

Oh, well. Nothing to lose.

“When we get back, we’ll talk to her, okay?” And your grin to him is so bright he can’t help but smile back, shaking his head as he turns back to the watch.

Nick throws his weight behind you the next time you’re in the squad room. whatever weight that is. Liv listens with renewed interest when it’s you and Nick talking and not just an inexperienced SVU detective with her own idea of what’s true and what’s not.

And when Cragen hears it, it’s from all three of you, with you standing behind Nick with those sharp, sharp eyes.

In the end you’re the one who gets to cuff him. Who gets to put his hands behind his back, walk him into the precinct with a smile that’s a little smug. Nick meets your eyes across the room, and he swears you wink at him, your heels no longer dragging on the ground, moving easy and fast across the squad room until you’re shoving him into one of the cells.

“Good job, detective,” Cragen tells you. “But those… hunches of yours aren’t always going to be right.”

“I know,” you retort, glancing at Nick. “But I’ll be sure to let you hear them anyway.”

_Stubborn_.

Even as he thinks it, it doesn’t seem right. Doesn’t fit.

But it’s gotta be that. You’re stubborn. Of course, you are. SVU attracts it. The headstrong dumbasses who filter through. Nick knows about Jeffries, about Cassidy, about Stabler. Knows Fin and Munch and Cragen and Rollins and Benson, even fucking Barba. All of them are stubborn, because you can’t be a detective without a bit of something to keep you pushing, keep you going. God knows it’s not anything like hope with this gig.

He can’t stop thinking about you the whole way home. Thinking about why the hell he can’t stop thinking, why you’re sitting on the edge of his brain. Maybe it’s the way you walked in, shoulders back, confident, assured. Maybe it’s the way you waltzed right into Cragen’s with the paperwork you needed, all certain and smirking and walking out with a badge on your hip. There’s something about you that pushes his buttons, that makes him roll over and punch his pillow.

He'll figure it out.

Eventually.

**ii.** _**importunate** _ **(adj.)**

> **persistent, especially to the point of annoyance or intrusion.**

The two of you end up paired more often than not. And each time you go out, he watches the same little routine you do. Stop at your desk, slide your jacket on with one arm and grab your phone with the other. You do a double-check, hands on both pockets and then one lightly touching your holster, and then you nod to yourself before nodding to him. Usually it’s a nonstarter, but today, it irritates him, makes his teeth grind. He’s ready to go, almost always itching for it, something to do. But you don’t speed up, and he’s stuck watching until you follow him into the elevator.

It doesn’t help that the morning is the kind that has him on edge. Waking up and remembering exactly why his bed is empty, why he doesn’t hear Zara’s peals of laughter this weekend. He looks at the mirror and can’t help seeing everything he hates.

He forces himself to stop, to take his breaths, to ground himself, to remember what Dr. Killmore said about focus. He pulls every technique he has out of the woodwork, and it doesn’t seem to matter.

It’s just one of those days, and he’s struggling through it because he has to.

Liv would say to call her. Amanda would say to get over himself, in a joking way to help him crack a smile. Munch would tell him to put himself first, that the bad days aren’t worth bruising himself over.

At least, they would if he told him. But he doesn’t. He keeps it close to the chest. A technique Dr. Killmore has recommended he stop and reconsider more than once. But he knows they notice, and if it’s a problem, they don’t say anything.

Why would they? No one else deserves the burden of Nick Amaro.

So he starts the day on a poor note. He’s antsy, tired, ten miles past done with himself and inching towards being done with everyone else. And then Liv sends you and him out clear across town inching close to four, meaning that the traffic will be a nightmare the whole way up and your little routine makes _that_ all the more certain.

When you both get in the car, he feels your eyes on him. He knows he’s white-knuckling the steering wheel as you read off the rap sheet, two convictions of statutory rape and a long history of gun violence singing in his head as you finally make it to the guy’s door. When he knocks, it’s with the side of his fist, and his voice is booming.

“Brock Garcia! NYPD, open the door!”

There’s a beat. Nothing on the other side. He pounds on the door again, repeats himself in Spanish and English. All he can hear is the blood thrumming in his ears. The words are basically spitting out of his mouth at that point, and he’s ready to kick the door down when you reach out to stop his fist from pounding on the door again.

“Patience,” you hiss out, and that’s when he hears the footsteps. The door opens with a soft creak, and a man two inches taller than Nick is behind it.

He looks… suspicious. Stands straight up, stiff, eyes narrowed. Raises a brow at the both of you, looks back and forth between your badges on your waists before meeting your eyes. But there’s a flicker of interest when he sees both of your faces, the kind that makes Nick’s skin crawl.

“What do you want?” he mutters out through the half-open door.

Meeting the guy’s eyes is enough to feel like a challenge. Nick doesn’t back down, straightens up himself, eyes narrowed, _scowls_.

“Just open the door, Garcia.”

“Excuse me?” Garcia hisses out, and that tone makes his heart race when he hears is.

But Nick can’t speak. Can’t say _we’re here to ask a couple of questions_. He can’t even get another word out before you’re pushing forward, offering your hand, grinning at the bastard.

“Hey, handsome. Don’t mind him. He had some bad coffee this morning. Look, do you mind if we come in? Get out of the hallway?”

You’ve disarmed him, even bat your eyes a little bit. Garcia’s brow is inching higher on his forehead, but you don’t back down, your hand still offered to him.

Suddenly, there’s a shift.

He shakes it with a grin that tries to ooze charm. You’re unfazed, already fluttering your eyelashes as he lets you in.

The whole time, Nick can’t get a word in edgewise. Anytime he tries, you cut him off. And he watches as you flutter your eyes, smile and push Nick aside. He feels his frustration grow and grow, and eventually all he can do is stay silent and watch as you pick at Garcia’s alibi as much as he’ll let you.

When you’re ceremoniously escorted out of there, Nick doesn’t even wait for you to say goodbye, and there’s certainly no debrief. He just starts storming down the hallway in frustration, and when he hears the door close that’s when he turns and glares until you meet him.

“What the hell was that?”

“You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first. He would’ve flirted back if you’d given him the chance,” you huff, and that’s when he sees red. He stops, in the hall, and you don’t bother to follow suit, heading towards the tight stairwell. “We’ve got enough here to double check. Come on. Let’s get a coffee on the way back.”

“You’re so damn _stubborn_ , you know that? You push in without thinking about anyone else but yourself. What, you want the glory of clearing cases already? You had no clue what you were getting into there. You didn’t even let me _talk_.”

“I was looking at a guy with two statutory cases under his belt, and I came out the other side. I think I had some kind of clue,” you laugh, and you flip your little pad. “We’re fine, Amaro.”

“You’re fine? Right. And what if something had happened? What if he’d had a gun on him? Would you have cared to hear my opinion, then?”

It’s that moment you spin to look at him, the sound wretched in the hallway of an apartment building long past its demolition date. Your eyes narrow as they meet his, but you don’t rise to match the fire in his voice, the heat that’s under his collar.

“Excuse me?”

Nick doesn’t give a shit, he’s a mile past pissed off, and for no damn good reason. He doesn’t get in your face, he’s not a complete asshole, but he does take a step forward, his hand on his hip as he cocks it.

“These cases aren’t just one person, rookie. That’s how someone gets hurt or fucking killed.” It’s condescending, maybe, and he’s definitely trying to pick a fight, but he doesn’t care. He’s walking to push past you anyway, shoulder shoving against yours. “So next time, stop and think a moment before you go flirting with a fucking rapist, and give a little courtesy for your partner.”

You let him get a couple more steps before he hears your scoff. And then you start laughing, a soft breathy chuckle, like you can’t believe what you’re hearing.

“What?” he gets out through gritted teeth, but you don’t even look his way, too focused on holding yourself upright.

“You, Nick Amaro, are going to look me in the eyes and tell me to have a little courtesy? Tell _me_ to stop and think?” When you scoff again, it feels like a knife, cutting at him. “I pegged you for a lot of things, man, but a hypocrite definitely wasn’t one of them.”

It doesn’t matter that the apartments around them are filled to the brim, surely, with prying ears. It doesn’t fucking matter. All Nick sees is you, leaning on the wall, and he’s ready to go off again before you grin and roll your eyes with it. He must look shocked, because you just shake your head.

“Come on. You throw yourself into danger like it’s your job. You’re standing face-to-face with perps in interrogations like it gets your rocks off. And y’know what, fine – you’re _angry_ , today, okay. I get that, but don’t be pretending you have a moral high ground here, when all you’re doing is taking that anger out on yourself, and right now, me.”

When you push off the wall, your eyes are gentler. He doesn’t know why you suddenly soften when you scan him again. Maybe it’s the way that his jaw clenches, the way he takes a five count to breathe in and out through his nose to calm the pounding in his chest. He clenches his jaw, and you take another step forward, dip your head so you can search out and meet his gaze.

“I didn’t do anything that you wouldn’t do, Amaro. I went into a situation to defuse it, to fix it, and I did. I’m not a rookie. I’ve been a detective for a while. I know what those interviews can turn into if you’re not careful. But I did something, I acted, and now we’re both walking out of there.”

Nick can’t think, really. Can’t speak. Because in about ten minutes, you’ve cut to the core of him, basically skinned him alive. He feels flayed, open, bare, and a draft in the hall makes him shiver. He just keeps looking at you, takes another five count.

That’s when you smirk. “So?”

He manages to swallow enough to get a word out. “… so?”

“You good to go? I’d kill for a coffee.”

And just like that, you’re fine. Whatever anger you have at him has vanished, and his own is wilting at the sight of your smile. Easy, open. You’re good, you’re fine, and he’s left staring as you turn again and push open the stairwell, the sound of your heeled boots echoing until the door closes behind you.

Eventually he follows. After a couple more five-counts, ten-counts, twenty-counts. He looks down at the ground, scowls and scuffs his shoe, and finally lifts his head so he can push on, jog down the stairs, step into the open air.

The first thing he sees is how badly his car needs a wash. The second thing he sees is you, leaning against his car like you leaned against the hallway walls, smirking at him as you squint through the sun. It’s shining on your hair, the breeze making your nose twitch.

You’re standing on the driver’s side.

“You’re not driving my car,” he blurts out, and you just raise a brow at him.

“And you’re in a headspace to navigate Manhattan roads in rush hour, how? C’mon, I still want a coffee.”

His scowl gets harsher, but he finds himself rummaging in his coat pocket for his keys. Tosses them over to you, and you catch them easily, snatching them out of the air with that same grin that settled him before.

“You’re paying,” he gripes, moving around to the passenger side. It doesn’t faze you, and when you both slide in you’re quick to start the engine and get moving.

At first the ride is silent, and you’re right – the roads are a bitch. But the silence lets him look at you, really look at you, and lets you take control of the radio and hum along to something that’s top 40.

Something doesn’t add up. You’re too loose for the way you glared earlier, too calm for the way you threw yourself in front of him. You’re at ease, and it makes his own discomfort come to the surface. He doesn’t ask, though, until you’re pulling over, parking in a miracle spot that gets you right in front of a stand.

“Why did you step in?” he asks. He can’t help the way it’s harsh, but you just turn to look at him.

“Because you would’ve gotten us shot,” you say immediately.

He pushes a breath through his nose. “No. Why’d you take the lead? Why’d you…”

He fumbles for the word. Finds himself gripping at his knees to wipe the sweat off of his palms.

Thankfully, you show mercy. You bite your lower lip, huff out a little laugh. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Amaro, but you’ve been antsy since this morning. And – and it was clear, to _me_ at least, that the last thing you needed was a one-on-one with a man who was convicted of statutory.”

“You knew I’d get mad at you,” he shoots back, and you shrug. “You’re not cleared to –”

“The politics of that kind of thing wasn’t going to stop me from making sure you got out of there.” You smile, gently, and pop your door. “And neither was your anger. You were going to do something reckless, get mad at me no matter what I did, and hate yourself for it after. I made sure that the both of us left there without needing to call IAB.”

You don’t wait for him to respond. You say the last part light enough, almost like it’s a joke – like you _don’t_ know his history, like it’s that easy. And he can’t help it, but even as you smirk and go to get the coffees, he starts chuckling. Smiling. Both hands lift to rub over his face, drag down his cheeks, and when you come back his shoulders are still shaking a little.

He’s exhausted, he realizes. Takes the coffee and downs half of it without processing the burned part of his tongue. You keep singing to something pop, and he watches the streets pass the both of you by.

“Thank you,” he says, when the coffee is finished, when he realizes that he hasn’t said it yet and you’re still a couple blocks from the 1-6. You nod, eyes ahead, and the street lights outside flicker on as the sun is setting. “For. Noticing.”

You turn to him. And your smile is back, the one that makes your cheeks a little rounder, makes your face a little softer.

“Next time, just say something, okay, Amaro?” you say, and your voice is low, matching the way the sky is turning pink and orange all around the both of you. “If you’re… ramped up. I’ll take the reins, and we both keep our heads.”

“Nick,” he blurts out, and you laugh a little at it.

“Okay. Nick.”

He nods. Agrees. And that seems to please you, because the radio is turned up, and you’re singing fully now. He laughs with it as you start adding body movements, too, right up until you pull into the precinct and even after the car is off. He gets his keys, you get out of the car, and you’re humming as you walk towards the entrance, a little spin on your heel as your hands reach up to start tying your hair back.

The rest of the night is paperwork, but Nick doesn’t feel the heat under his collar anymore. He’s not tapping his toes, fidgeting with his pen. He simply works alongside you, even gets you another coffee when yours is finally done. It’s a late night, and he doesn’t _really_ mind, now that the edge is off.

He doesn’t think about how much you’re the reason, but he does think about your smile as you leave.

**iii.** _**dogged** _ **(adj.)**

> **having or showing tenacity and grim persistence.**

Nick’s putting on his coat when he realizes you haven’t even started packing up.

It’s quiet once it gets past 5:00. The daytime workers have all filed out, the shift guys in blue sitting around waiting for the night crew to come in. The usual low drum of movement has faded, and all that’s left is the occasional snort of laughter, the hums of microwaves as dinners get heated up and dozing as the sun starts setting outside. Once the shift changes happen it’s even softer, as if crime’ll wake up with too loud jokes and without bad energy drinks.

Nick’s there later than he should be. He’d left early the couple of days before because he’d had Zara and Gil nights respectively, which meant that paperwork got pushed to the side at Liv’s insistence for family time. Which, in the moment, he had appreciated, right up until it bit him in the ass. Now a ten-hour has turned into a twelve hour, he’s leaving at close to 7:30, his eyes are drooping just a little bit, and all he can think about is getting home to a bed he can crash in.

So, he starts getting ready. He shoves stuff in his duffle. Pulls down his sleeves, buttons them quick. Puts on his jacket, and he gets his coat on before he sees you.

It’s like you don’t even see him stand, and he can’t help the way he frowns. You’re so focused on what you’re writing on a post-it that the world around you doesn’t matter. It’s been a few months since the incident in the hall, and he figures at this point he at least warrants a glance. And he glances at the clock again.

7:35, and pitch-black outside.

One more glance to the door. But even looking at the exit makes him feel guilty, and he sighs before looking back at you, at the way your hands push loose hair away from your face.

It’s been a rough case. A rough week of them, really, and he knows the feeling. The need for more and more coffee just to get through reading about another tragedy. The craving to do whatever it takes to just get justice for one… one victim.

He hopes you don’t catch him staring. But then his eyes spy the little bundle by your feet. Too big to be a gym bag, and too big to be anything else but overnight.

Goddammit. Not the bunks.

_Stubborn_ , he thinks, and he lets out a little curse under his breath before moving towards you. It’s moments like these when he realizes how far away your desk feels. You should just move over to the one across from him, but.

Another time. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, and your head jerks up, sharp, pen cap caught in your teeth. Your eyes are a little wide with surprise from his voice, but once you see it’s him you smile a little crooked, the same smile he gets every day now.

It’s definitely fond. He doesn’t want to linger on how he smiles back.

“Hey, yourself,” you say, and instantly your mouth breaks open into a wide yawn.

He chuckles, shaking his head, watching as you blink away the exhaustion as best as you can.

His voice is firm, when he speaks, like he can order you around. “You’ve gotten twelve in. Head home before it kills you,” he says.

You smirk, and he knows you’re thinking the same thing. When he started knowing what you were thinking, he doesn’t know. “Mmm. There a reason you’re feeling bossy?”

“I’m speaking from experience,” he says, not wanting to let something like worry shine through. “Come on. Go home.”

It’s at the second insistence that your brow furrows. He sees an all-too-familiar shadow on your features, and when you duck your head again it’s to start writing. You finish the sentence you were working on before he interrupted, and when you look up again your eyes are dark.

“No, I – I need to finish this. Thanks, though, Nick.” And then it’s back to work, and he’s stuck watching you scribble away, nose so close to the paper he’s not sure you don’t have ink on it.

He can’t pull away. Not when he’s seen this hole, been in this hole, jumped headfirst into this hole. He glances at as much of the file as he can, winces when he sees the case details half-cut off with a post-it.

“Look –” he starts, but you look back up at him with sharp eyes.

“Nick, I’m fine.” Your voice is tight, and he frowns with it. “I just need some more _time_. God, this bastard’s right in front of us.”

He lifts his hands in surrender, leans against your desk. It earns him another glare, but he sighs, leaning a little close. His duffle is set to rest against his leg. “I’m not saying you’re not… fine. But if you don’t get up now, you’re not gonna get up until the sun comes. Put it down. It’ll be there tomorrow. And sleep’ll only help.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he raises a hand, cuts you off. “Sleep in a real bed, _socio_. Not… god, whatever the fuck those are.”

“Yeah, but this is…” You swallow, gesture down to the picture of the victims you have in front of you. He watches your hands move to shuffle through them. “I’m close. Okay? I’m close to pinning this guy. The bastard rapes these women and he’s so fucking close I can basically taste it.”

The pictures are tossed down, scatter a bit. Nick watches them flutter and then looks back up at you. Says your name gently, so that you meet his gaze.

You look at him a little long, and the silence stretches on. The heat in your eyes fades slowly, bit by bit, and you lift your hands to rub over your face. He watches as you roll back from the desk, rub your face again, let out a soft sigh. “Just… half an hour…?”

Just a little push. A little more.

Nick reaches forward, closes the file. Leans in. You huff out a breath, a release as you watch his hands, and when you look back up at him, he can see the bags under your eyes. “Okay. Okay. I get it. You want me to head home.”

Yes. But before he can stop himself he’s continuing.

“Have you had dinner?”

It comes out of his mouth too easily. When he though _push_ , he’d thought about a ride home, when he’d considering a little nudge, it was more making sure you made it back without falling asleep on the subway. Not… not that.

But now that he says it, he realizes that your eyes are blinking in… realization. Amusement, at yourself, when you reach down and put your hand on your stomach.

“No. I was just gonna get something when I get home.” He nods, a little, and for a second he avoids your gaze. You always see right through him with those eyes, and he doesn’t want to give himself away. What it could mean. When you say his name again, you’re insistent, and that gets him to look at you, smirking a little as he crosses his arms over his chest. Are you… offering?”

He nods, watching you, for anything. A sign of hesitation, discomfort. – he’ll pull back if he needs to, if you want him to. Calm the waters. “Let’s get some food in you, get you some sleep. And tomorrow, we’ll get this guy.”

But there’s no pause. You stand up from your chair, pull your arms back in a stretch. Nick feels the urge to drop his gaze again, uses it to grab his duffle from the floor. “You paying?” you ask him, and he nods, sparing a look to watch you push your chair in. “As long as you’ve got it covered, then I’m in. Give me ten minutes, gather some stuff up?”

Later you’re sitting in front of him. An all-night diner, splitting some flapjacks and eating eggs. You’re telling a story about Major Case, one that has your hands moving your fork around, brandishing it like a weapon. Nick laughs as he avoids a piece of scrambled egg that flies off it, shaking his head as you cover your face to hide your embarrassment, the way you bite your bottom lip. Before he can even blink it’s been a couple of hours, and that chance for sleep he’s so insistent you get keeps fading.

Neither of you mind, and he ends up taking you to your door anyway. 

“I owe you,” you keep telling him, right up until your key slots into your apartment door and you fiddle with it. He can’t help the way he brushes off the suggestion, shaking his head as he leans on the doorframe, watching you fiddle and finagle and finally get it unlocked. “You didn’t have to make sure I got fed. I keep a full fridge.”

“Oh, please. It was diner food, and bad decaf coffee. If anything I owe you a better meal.”

Suddenly you turn to face him, whirling on him like that time in the hallway. He blinks, but you’re looking playful.

“I’m sorry, did you just say decaf? Did you give me decaf coffee all night?”

“Your fault you didn’t see the orange handle.”

The following gasp is pained, that’s the only word to describe it. He laughs, then, shoving off of the wall to start the walk back to his car. He’s still facing you, but he’s taking a couple of steps back, hand reaching up to rub at his jaw. “It was 8:30 by the time we got there, you’re telling me you wanted more caffeine? Get outta here. Get inside, go to _bed_ , dammit.”

“What can I say? I’m insatiable,” you shoot back, and he turns to look over his shoulder as you push into your apartment. You’re grinning at him, and he doesn’t have time to think about it before you’re winking and waving at him. “See you tomorrow?”

The wink. The wave. The words. It have him a little dumbfounded, still gripping his jaw. “Yeah. Tomorrow. Unfortunately.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re giggling as you push the door closed. “Right. Unfortunately. Goodnight, Nick.”

“Night.”

He can’t help but start laughing again, breathy and light until he hears the lock of your door. And then it’s full-bodied, paired with the shake of his shoulders as he moves to the elevator and push the button for down.

Tomorrow.

**iv.** _**tenacious** _ **(adj.)**

> **not readily relinquishing a position, principle, or course of action; determined.**

The Skype call doesn’t connect.

Nick curses under his breath and pushes a hand through his hair, a motion he does so often he’s sure he’s losing hair from it. He closes the app on his laptop, stabs at his lunch a couple of times, and takes another deep breath. He hates it, the distance from the both of them, Zara and Maria. He wants to fix things – he just wants to be able to talk with Maria without something ending up angry, and he wants to be able to hug Zara again.

It doesn’t feel like much to ask for, but he knows it’s just out of reach. It’s maddening.

And then he hears Carisi’s voice. It grates him today, every piece of it – the volume, the accent. And the mustache, just icing on top of a shitty cake. He tries to peer out the window of the break room, to see if he can notice a skinny Italian making his way towards him, but he doesn’t see anything through the blinds.

He sees you, he realizes. Sitting at the desk, across from his. You’d told him you’d cover while he took lunch, and unfortunately that meant sitting and listening to the new guy ramble on about something. Rollins was stuck alongside you, arms crossed over her chest as she sat on your desk, watching as Carisi gestured to something at the board. A board you looked at like you were bored to death.

Somehow you know that he’s watching you, because your eyes glance up from where they’re focused past Carisi’s ear, and when your eyes meet his you scowl. A clear reminder of what he got you into. The frustration of not seeing Zara is dulled just a little, and he can’t help but laugh as your attention is dragged back to what’s in front of you.

Then he hears the sound, someone calling him, and he focuses in to see that it’s Zara’s iPad. He grins with it, glances at the clock. Perfect. Twenty minutes.

Clicking the green button and seeing Zara’s face on a screen makes his chest hurt, just a little bit. She’s right there in front of him, but he can’t pull her close. Can’t hug her tight, can’t do anything but grin at her, lift a hand in a little wave.

“Daddy!” she shouts out, and the little crackle in the sound from her volume makes him wince.

“ _Hola, mija_ ,” he murmurs. It’s a little reverent. He doesn’t want to intrude on her day, but… he needs this time. “How’re you doing? How’s school?”

“School?” Zara sounds scandalized at the word, and sticks out her tongue at the camera. “That’s _boring_ , Daddy!”

“Right, of course, princess. Silly me,” he gets out, a choked out laugh that she shares with him. “Boring. Well, what do _you_ want to talk about, then?”

It takes but a moment for her to pick a topic. “I started ballet here! And the teacher is so nice she let me stand at the front of the class and introduce myself to everyone, and when Mama picked me up the teacher said I did so well –”

Nick knows he isn’t going to talk for a while. But he doesn’t mind. He lets Zara ramble, laughing when he can, adding a comment or two. It makes her absolutely beam, and when she dashes away to her room to go throw on her ballet outfit for him Nick is smiling bright. Forget Carisi, forget anything else.

God, he misses his daughter, but getting to see her always makes him a little bit of a better man.

“Well, don’t you look pleased? Laughing at my misery, maybe?” 

He looks up, startled, and you’re standing there, the door held open with your foot. You look like you’re glaring, just a little, but he sees the hint of playfulness, especially as you step out from the door and let it close behind you. When the surprise is gone, he chuckles, sitting up in his chair as you lean against the table, reaching down to take a bite of his food.

“What the hell?” he shouts.

You just laugh, reaching for another bite. “It’s _one_ bite, Nick, and I’m _hungry_.”

“Now two! Get your own.” He swats at your hands, pushing them away from his food that he quickly moves to the other side of the laptop. “You’re getting a break in ten minutes, just wait. _Dios mio_ , you’re a menace.”

“Your favorite one,” you shoot back, and he doesn’t have the urge to argue. “Seriously, what’s got you so happy? Maybe it’ll clear my head of Carisi’s… existence.”

That’s when Nick remembers the laptop, and he glances down to the screen. Zara still isn’t back yet, so he gestures. “I, uh. I’m calling Zara. We try to do meals together, my lunchtime and her breakfast, when we can.”

Immediately your face softens, and you lift your hand to cover your mouth a little bit. He can tell you’re smiling beneath the hand, even though when it pulls away your face is more neutral. “That’s – that’s really sweet, Nick,” you say, and you move to stand. “I’ll leave you be, I was just coming to bug you.”

“It’s not bugging me,” he immediately says, shrugging it off, and that’s when Zara comes hurtling back towards the camera.

“Daaaadddddy, I heard you shouting!” Zara calls out, and your eyes are drawn to the screen just as his is. Her tutu is a bright pink, and she’s clambering into her seat with a little crown on her head. “Daddy, daddy, look!”

“That’s, uh, really pretty, Zara,” he says, smirking up at you as you cover your hand with your mouth again and then start backing away.

You mouth an apology at him, but before you can fully sneak away, Zara’s voice comes through again.

“I know. Who was bugging you, Daddy?”

That shocks a laugh out of him. One that makes him look to you again. You just raise a brow, mouth still covered, but he bites his lower lip a little before answering.

“It’s my partner, Y/N. You’ve met her at the precinct, and she does bug me every so often,” he says, earning him a glare from you that he ignores, “but she wasn’t, then. She just has to go back to work.”

“Aww, really? Doesn’t she wanna see my ballet shoes?”

“Zara,” Nick starts, but you’re already moving to the screen, coming around behind him, hand on his shoulder as you lean in to the frame.

“Do I want to see ballet shoes?” you say, and your voice is bright and cheery. “Do you even have to ask? Of course, I do!”

It makes Zara giggle to see you, to hear you say that, and Nick just chuckles as you squat a little lower so you can see better. He is no longer in the call. It is your show, and Zara is absolutely soaking up the attention. You coo about the way they fit, ask her to show you both a couple of moves, and by the time his half-an-hour is ending Zara is spinning around and around much to your delight. His eyes are on the both of you, moving back and forth from Zara’s toothy smile to the way you’re looking at her. Soft, gentle.

“Well, bravo!” you say to her. “I think you’re gonna be a ballerina in no time.”

“I know,” she says with confidence, and that’s when Nick focuses back in.

“Zara, come on. Say thank you,” he says, and the little huff of air out of his daughter’s nose makes you laugh. You both watch her roll her eyes, pull her shoulders back.

“Thank you, but I know.”

You dissolve into laughter again, this time peals of it, and Nick just sighs at the tone his daughter affected.

“You’re pretty cool, Zara,” you tell her. “But I’ve gotta get back to work. If you ever want to show me your ballet stuff again just let your dad know, okay?”

“Okay!” She’s still grinning, and Nick watches as you wave a little, feels it as you reach down and squeeze his shoulder. You’re moving away from the camera, and that’s when Nick looks up at the clock. He should be finishing up, too, but like always, the thought of hanging up on his daughter makes his chest ache. And there must be something on his face, because when you turn back to him, you stop in the doorway, and Zara’s sad voice comes through the speakers.

“Do you have to go, Daddy?”

His gaze is drawn back to her, and he pushes his fingers forward to rest on the screen. “Yeah, baby, I do, but. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, right? Your mom said that you’ve got something to show me.”

And Zara’s eyes light up once again, before covering her hand with her mouth. “It’s a secret,” she gasps out, and the sadness from the temporary farewell falls off of her. There are giddy goodbyes as she finishes her food, and when she’s gone Nick realizes that he’s barely touched his own.

That, and that you’re still there. Watching.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your time with Zara,” you say, a little sheepish. Your hands are wringing a little in front of you. “She’s a sweetheart.”

“Yeah, she is,” he agrees, and watches as you move to the door. “And you didn’t – it’s not your fault, yeah? Really. Don’t worry about it. I should’ve said something.”

“When I barged in here and started taking your food, you mean?” you scoff, shake your head. “Just tell me, next time, Nick. You don’t have to sneak off to talk to your daughter.”

“I wasn’t sneaking off!” he argues, but then he sees the smirk on your face. “Okay, hah, hilarious.”

“I try to be.”

There’s a beat. Where he looks at you, and you look right back at him. Your hands move to sit on your hips as you eye him up and down, and you seem... resolute. Certain of something. He notices the fit of your jacket, the way it shapes your shoulders. He thinks about how you looked talking to his daughter, and the shine of your eyes as you watched his little girl dance for you.

If he’s honest, he doesn’t know what you’re thinking. He can’t tell. But he does know that soon enough you’re stepping forward, and leaning on his table once more. 

“Look, I still owe you. For dinner, last time, and now my horrific _faux pas_. Why don’t we… do dinner, tonight? Just. You and me.”

You ask it so easily. A shrug of your shoulders, like it doesn’t mean anything to ask, like you’re not also toying with the edge of the table, your nail working on the halfway peeled linoleum. And Nick is left a little speechless.

“Dinner.” If it is what it sounds like, it’s not just a dinner, and it makes him blink, swallow at the suggestion.

“If you don’t want to –” you start, and he can’t stand the way that for a moment you can’t even meet his eyes. He sits up, quickly, reaches out for your fidgety hand to cover it with his own.

“No, no, I _want_ to,” he insists. It would be out of nowhere, if it hadn’t been on his mind for a couple of weeks now. Another evening like that night, where time seemed to be a distant memory, a lot less clear than the way you looked under New York streetlights.

His evening hits him in waves. He told Gil that he’d take him to a basketball game. He has the tickets in his coat, ready and waiting, and the frustration that suddenly rises to the surface must come across.

You look up. Brow furrowed. “But…”

He takes a breath. “I can’t tonight. I’ve got plans.”

Your face falls. Just a little, but you clearly try to smooth it. Smile. “Plans.”

“With Gil. I told him… I promised him a game, so. We’re going tonight. Any other night, you _know_ I’d say yes.”

Your eyes scan him, readily, and he can’t help the way he has to blink. Your eyes have always been sharp, but today they pierce him to his core.

“Okay,” you murmur, pulling back. And then you smile, and he has to suck in a little inhale at the way it makes you light up. “Not tonight, then.”

“Not tonight, but.” He can’t bring himself to finish, but he says it hoping you hear the promise. “I’m not –” he starts, before cutting himself off. You’re smiling at him still, this time a little smug, a little fond. A lot fond, he hopes. “I’m not scaring you off, am I? I really do have plans with Gil, the tickets are in my coat –”

It lights up the room, that smile of yours. It’s bigger and brighter as you look at him. He doesn’t know why it took him so long to notice that he _notices_. Every single time. “I believe you, Nick. You don’t have to insist,” you laugh, and his own smile feels a little dopey on his features. He’s suddenly conscious of the fact that his ears are probably burning red. “You’ve got a – look, I’m here, okay? And you’re not getting rid of me that easily. We just pick another week, go then.”

“Good. Good.”

He realizes that you’re still looking at him, and for once he feels the receiving end of a full body scan. Feels himself have to drop his gaze as your eyes move over his face, take in every feature. Finally, you stand from your spot on the table, the longest lunch break of his career starting on a low and ending on a high. You reach out, squeeze his shoulder, and his eyes follow you as you move to the door.

“So, rain check to what, then?” he calls out. Leans back in his seat, his eyes off of the Skype home screen and on every bit of you. 

You snort, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear to look over your shoulder at him. “Oh, c’mon. You’re gonna make me say it?”

“I just want some verbal confirmation,” he pushes, and you laugh, hand on your hip as you assess him. His grin is shit-eating, and you match it. “What exactly are we postponing?”

“A dinner,” you retort, and he shakes his head.

“Which is?”

There’s a little pause, as your arms cross over your chest and you start tapping your boot against the floor. The stand-off is thick with the good kind of tension, and when you cave it’s with a huff. “Which is a date, Nick Amaro,” you give him, and he can’t help the way he settles back. Too pleased with himself.

“Don’t look too happy,” you say with a point of your finger. “Your break is almost over, so you’re covering next.”

He raises a brow at you. “So?”

“So you get Carisi next. And I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun.”

Nick lets out a dramatic groan, pushes his hand through his hair. Your laughter peals off as you push out of the breakroom, and he can hear you all the way back to your desk.

The one across from his.

Perfect.

**v.** _**unshakable** _ **(adj.)**

> **strongly felt and unable to be changed; unable to be disputed or questioned.**

The first date is a lot less than romantic.

The fact is that plans change. The fact is that working for SVU, plans have to change, and maybe the problem is making plans in the first place, but either way the place that Nick plans to take you closes at ten o’clock, and it’s eleven by the time you even think about leaving the precinct that Friday night.

You say it doesn’t matter, and he believes you. Somehow, you’ve still got a smile on after everything, after victim after victim stumble in, after each case feels like another blow. It’s gentle, and each time you offer it to him throughout the night, his apologies getting more and more elaborate, it pulls him back from the edge of frustration. When his jaw clenches, you reach to pat his shoulder, and gives it right back, squeezing your arm when you come out of lock-up short another pair of handcuffs.

Dinner comes late that night. Dinner comes at that same diner he took you to the first time, this time with your card being offered to pay for it at the end of it all. Dinner ends with the two of you, eyes barely open after decaf coffee, leaning on each other a little your head resting on his shoulder as the elevator carries you up to your floor.

By the time the two of you make it to the door, there’s not many words left to be shared. Only smiles. You give him one as you fumble for the lock, and he gives you one back as he takes a step closer, places his hand on your cheek.

“Can I?” he asks. His voice is a little hoarse, with exhaustion, with something else.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say with a breathy chuckle, and when he pushes in for a kiss you meet him.

-

Nick watches his father leave with bile in his throat. Feels each word like another hit, over and over and over. When he pushes into a stall, bends down, it clears his stomach but not his mind.

What does Liv tell him? What does Liv tell all of them? Victims feel better when they face their abuser. Well, Nick still feels pretty fucking shitty, and he can’t even look at himself in the mirror. His own name taunts him. Nicholas Amaro. He looks at his fists, sees the damage they’ve caused all on their own, and thinks about how much better he really is.

He makes it to the bathroom again. He feels a little dizzy when he lifts again. And when he leaves the stall, washes his hands, his mouth, and pushes out the door, he sees you.

Your eyes are searching for something, and it takes a moment for him to think about the fact that it could be him with the taste of bile in the back of his throat. Who would want to seek him out, after everything? Who would want to come to him? Take his hand? Not even his own mother –

Your eyes catch his, finally. Your shoulders sag a little bit, and he feels the hits again. The pain in his chest. And then you’re pushing closer, closer, ever closer, and you’re pulling him into a hug that almost crushes him in its intensity.

“Where’s – where’s Zara?” he asks. It’s choked out, but he can’t even feel shame at the tears that his father tried so hard to beat out of him.

“She’s with Amanda,” you murmur, and your grip tightens. “She’s got her. I’ve gotcha, I’ve gotcha, Nick. I’m here.”

-

Nick’s eyes open slowly.

He hates this feeling. The heavy limbs, the throbbing head, the smell of whatever the fuck they pump in and out of the room. He’s disoriented, and he’s sure that if he tries to lift himself up he’ll just fall back onto the pillow. But he tries anyway, moving his hands underneath him, a slow three-count going off in his head –

“Don’t even think about it.”

He doesn’t even move quick enough to freeze. Just goes limp again against the sheets, feels them scrape against his skin as he tries to adjust again. There’s a sigh that’s exasperated, and soon you’re filling his field of view, mouth curled into a frown, hands moving to tuck the blankets back around him.

“Goddammit, Nick,” you mutter. “I said don’t. You have to rest.”

“Wha’ happened?” he asks, mouth full of cotton. Your brow furrows, looking at him, eyes flicking back and forth between his own as if you’re searching for any sign of fog.

He remembers exactly what happened. To a point. He remembers chasing Johnny D, a split-second after the man pushed through the courthouse doors. He remembers firing his weapon, once, twice. He remembers the burst of pain, remembers the scream he lets out.

Remembers thinking about Zara, about Gil, about Maria, about you. And then the feeling of the floor as it collided with his head.

After that it’s black. But he wants to know what you know, wants to know why you’re looking at him so pained.

When you laugh, he hates the way it strains with your worry. “You got shot, dumbass. That’s what happened.”

But the thing is, Nick still knows to squeeze. Knows that your hand is already in his, has been the whole damn time, and loves the way light above you halos the hair that’s let down around your head. You lift his hand to kiss it, and he wishes you’d lean down, just a little closer, so he could give you one back.

“M'sorry. I should’ve…”

Your sigh is a little exasperated, and you shake your head. “What? Not thrown yourself into danger?”

“Mmm. Maybe.”

His eyes start to blur again, though. He’s exhausted, and tired, and he has a feeling that throbbing in his leg isn’t going to go away anytime soon.

“You goin’ anywhere?” he grumbles out, and you laugh again, a little lighter, shaking your head as you squeeze his hand back. “Gonna… sleep for a while.”

“Unfortunately for you, you’re damn near stuck with me.”

-

“Gil is going to California.”

You’re ladling out the stew into bowls when he says it, and at first he’s wondering if you’ve heard him. You don’t look up, after all, just finish plating what you can before wiping your hands on your pants, turn to see him leaning on his crutches.

“You’re gonna hurt your armpits,” you answer, and Nick winces at the dismissal of his words. “Stop leaning on them, sit down.”

He pushes forward instead. Lets the crutches carry him to you, where you’ve put the bowls down on the counter after picking them up for a moment. He sees the way your hands are shaking, just a little, the way your lower lip is being nibbled. You’ll bite it to oblivion, he’s noticed. But you’ll smile through it. You always will.

He hopes you know you don’t have to smile through it.

“Gil is going to California,” he says again, watching the way you blink at it. “And – and I’m gonna stay here.”

Your breath catches. You look at him with wide eyes, and he wishes he could stand on both feet so he could pull you against him.

One arm is enough. One arm yanks you close, right against his chest, and you let out a shaky sigh into it, relief. He can feel the weeks of worry that’ve been weighing on you, worry he’s tried to soothe as much as he can.

“I know I’m – I’m a lot,” he gets out, and it’s so broken through the catch in his throat he is unsure if you can even understand it. “But I’m gonna be here. Liv said – said she’d do what she can, with the higher-ups.”

When you pull back, he looks at you. Lifts a hand to brush his thumb over your lower lip, soothing the skin, and lets out a soft sigh at the way you gently kiss his thumbprint.

“My future is here,” he whispers. “Is you. I just, I need to know if you know what you’re getting into?” he asks. His voice is trembling a little, hoarse, and you meet his eyes. Everything he’s done, every obstacle he’s overcome flashes through his mind, but when he blinks there’s nothing even close to uncertainty in the way you hold his gaze.

“I’m here, Nick Amaro,” you murmur. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

“There are better things,” he huffs. Shaking his head. “Better people.”

“And I said what I said. You got a problem with that?”

He kisses you again. Slow, gentle. His thumb moves to stroke your cheek, and both of your hands reach up to cover his grip his t-shirt. He kisses you again, and again, and kisses you about fifty times more before he can even think about catching his breath.

You’re stubborn, after all. And he has a good fucking feeling your love is, too.


End file.
